


The Devil May Cry At The End Of The Night

by agirlnamedtruth



Category: Damien (TV)
Genre: Accidental Stimulation, Age Difference, Antichrist, Breathplay, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dark, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Character Death, Possessive Behavior, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: Damien can't shake the feeling of having his hands around her neck.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the April Fools Mini Round at [Rounds of Kink](http://rounds-of-kink.livejournal.com/), finished and posted for Amnesty Round 11. Title from Devil May Cry by The Weeknd. Set directly after 1x06.

Damien wasn’t sure what he meant to achieve by standing outside her house in the dead of night. The hospital had discharged him, at last, and he could have gone anywhere else in the world but his feet led him here, to her. He almost wished it hadn’t been a dream. He could take the lies about him being the antichrist, the heartbreak of losing his mother again, the total loss of control through being drugged. He could take all that for the clarity of hating her as much as he had in the moments his hands had tightened around her throat. 

He knew he hated her, that was clear. He could recognize the emotions surging through his brain like chemicals firing up his synapses but that was it. He couldn’t make himself _feel_ anything. He never could fix that disconnect between what he knew he felt and what he _felt_. Except in that moment when he nearly killed her. That he had felt. For the first time since he was a child and felt the tension of that rope pull tight as his nanny jumped... for him. _All for him._

Damien shook his head, pulling himself back from that thought. It wasn’t his fault she had died. It wasn’t his fault death dogged his trail almost as persistently as Ann did. Yet here he was, doing exactly what he accused her of. Lurking in the shadows, lying to himself, trying to attribute power to her, over him, that she didn’t have. He jumped guiltily when his phone vibrated in his pocket, pulling him back to stark reality, reminding him that stalking her was just as illegal as her stalking him was supposed to be.

Glancing down at the screen, he winced at her name, wishing he hadn’t been fool enough to come here tonight. Wishing he wasn’t a fool enough to pick up even as he hit the inviting green button.

“Hello,” he said curtly, pretending to both not know who he was speaking to or that he was on her lawn, in plain sight of the window she was standing at, a curious smile playing on her lips, her fingers toying with the strap of her silk nightdress as though modesty was a concern of hers.

“Hello Damien,” Ann said with the same professional detachment. “I have a glass of wine with your name on it; you might as well join me.”

Just like that, she hung up the phone and pulled the blind closed, giving him two choices. Come in or be shut out. It was simple really but it was one of the most complicated choices that had ever been put before him. And still, he made it spectacularly quickly, striding with confidence towards her door, letting himself in as though he lived there. 

She was waiting for him in the hallway, a more modest robe covering the previous suggestion of her nightdress, the promised glass in her hand extending out like a white flag between them. He couldn’t help but wonder whom it would be winning this fight if everyone surrendered. He was certain it wouldn’t be him, no matter what she thought. No matter whom she thought he was, if he gave in, he’d be just another weak human giving into instinct. And he’d certainly done that before, more times than he cared to count.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Damien said as though that would excuse the fact he was.

“Why ever not?” Anne asked, tilting her head curiously, a sparkle in her eyes. “If you intend to do as you threatened, this is exactly where you should be, is it not? After all, I would rather die in the warm with this glass of Château Latour and your hands around my neck than out on the street by a speeding motorist or at the jaws of some rabid dog.”

Damien stared at her for a moment, trying to work out if she was honestly that deluded that she’d turned her own death into a romance or if she was teasing him. Even the hint of a smile didn’t have him entirely convinced that there wasn’t a part of her that was deathly serious about the thought of her demise at her hands. When he didn’t answer, she shook her head, almost like she was disappointed in him.

“And if you’re not here to kill me,” she continued, stepping closer. “Then I suggest you drink up because it would be a terrible shame to waste the bottle.”

Ann leaned in close to him and for a panicking, fleeting moment, he thought she would kiss him but instead, she straightened his shirt collar, tapped where his lapel would sit if he’d come to her in anything more than his scruffy shirt sleeves, and passed him, leading him into her reception room without any further enticement.

Swallowing uncomfortable, he made the decision to sit, hitching the leg of his jeans without making himself any more comfortable. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do you?” she asked back, tipping her head a little further forward, her elbow on her knee, her chin on her hand, giving herself the air of his shrink rather than that of a manipulator or his trusted counsel. 

“I don’t often have these thoughts, it’s... disconcerting,” Damien said, saying the word carefully, around a large sip of wine, knowing she could easily use any weakness he exposed now against him later.

“How so?” she asked, same air, this time with a slight narrowing of her eyes.

Damien shook his head, trying to stop an incredulous laugh. “Because normal people find it disconcerting when they get off on dreams about strangling people. Even people like you.”

“Would it help you to know I don’t find it disconcerting in the least?” Ann offered, setting down her glass and standing up, approaching him again, making his heart rise into his throat again. “I find it completely natural for a man of your... unique class.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Damien asked, hating that he’d even used the word, hating himself for bringing it up at all. Hating that it always circled back to this lunacy. “I’m just a man, like everyone else.”

Damien expected her to argue, expected her to claim he was so much more and he didn’t know if he could even bear to hear it right now. But to his surprise she nodded, reaching out to stroke his jaw. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Damien said gratefully, so thankful that he didn’t have to fight her on the matter that he let her touch linger unspoken. “God, yes.”

After a long, almost painfully drawn out silence, Ann spoke. “You don’t have to kill me to choke me. You can just do it. Then stop.”

Whatever Damien was expecting, it wasn’t the words that he heard. He looked sharply up as though to check they had really come out of her mouth. “Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Ann asked back, stroking more tenderly over his cheekbone.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Damien said before swallowing, his eyes widening at his own admittance as though he’d said something far more intimate.

“Which is why you would stop, at a certain point,” Ann reasoned, like the thin line between stopping and not stopping wasn’t death.

Damien swallowed hard, that thin line too thick and too dark and far too attractive. “And if I don’t?”

His voice shook as he asked, despite how he wasn’t sure what it was he _didn’t_. What if he didn’t want to? What if he didn’t stop? What if he didn’t want to stop?

“Then you don’t,” Ann suggested simply, moving her fingers down from his cheek to his throat, pressing lightly on his Adam’s apple, just enough to make him draw in a breath. Just enough to make him gasp at the shiver that went through him, like somebody had walked over his grave. He briefly considered reaching out, to move her hand or tighten around it, he wasn’t sure but her touch left him, as subtly and gently as it had landed. “But I would prefer that you do.”

She took his wine glass from him, turning to place it on the ornate coffee table as she sat down beside him, his hand touching hers with an accidental intimacy. He looked down at it but didn’t move to move it. Instead he pushed closer, taking up the space between them, his knee pushing hers apart. It wasn’t attraction, he didn’t want to fuck her, he just needed to _possess_ her again, as he had before. His mind blanched at the word but his body surged forward again, pushing her back on the sofa, hands ghosting over her silk robe until he found what he was looking for.

The paper thin skin of her neck. So delicate. So easily crushed beneath his fingers. He squeezed, all of his weight bearing down, his whole body pressed against her. She suddenly seemed so frail, just like he remembered her in his dream. Frail and paper thin, just like the origami flowers his nanny used to make him. Ann’s mouth formed a silent o, just like hers had been when they’d cut the rope and carried her body down. He wasn’t supposed to see. His innocent little eyes weren’t supposed to see her bloodshot ones and her purple skin. Ann’s skin was flushed pink, he didn’t think he could make hers go such a lovely color but he tightened his grip, trying anyway. The muscles in his palms burned from the strain as he rocked against her, throttling her now, stopping each tiny gasp of air, not even noticing he was hard against her, turned on by the whites of her widened eyes, the friction of her flailing body beneath him. A few more seconds would do it. That’s all it would take. All for him. _All for him._

Damien groaned low in his throat as he came, the sudden hit of pleasure weakening his grip, his breath as heavy as Ann’s was as she drew in ragged gasps. The world seemed to black out for a moment, like he’d been the one strangled to within an inch of his life but somewhere in the back of his mind, in the darkness, he wondered if that would be what it felt like to let _him_ take over.

When he came to, spent and feeling like a truck had hit him, he was draped over Ann’s body still, nuzzling into her neck, into the angry red marks he’d caused, while she stroked up and down his back, soothing him gently. He slept on her sofa that night, making origami flowers out of her letterheads to stop his hands from itching.

**Author's Note:**

> As of 01/01/18, I'm opting to disable comments. [More information here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13077201).


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